


Scuffed Boots and Dark Rooms

by Fallingtodream



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: : non-con, Angst, Dark, M/M, Mind Control, Slash, bottom!clint, hurt!Clint, restrained, rough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 20:39:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallingtodream/pseuds/Fallingtodream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint hasn't moved, eyes either on Loki or the tall blond to his left.  He hasn’t moved because Loki hasn’t released him yet, but he wants to.  He’s got tendrils of fear stirring that fluttery feeling of anxiety up a notch.  He doesn’t know why Loki is angry with him, and he wants to please his Master, so when the blond moves closer and grabs him by the jaw to tilt his head up, he doesn’t jerk away.  He heard the inherent order to comply.  He looks up at the blond and knows what the expression means, the slight curl of the mans mouth and gleam to his eyes, as they look him over.  He wants to pull away, but his body doesn’t move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scuffed Boots and Dark Rooms

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is dark peoples!! You've been warned. :) Now enjoy.  
> Beta'd by BouncingCrow, she was hard, thorough and had wonderful suggestions, and without her, this wouldn't have been half as good. Thanks sweety!!

It’s been three days since Clint helped Loki escape from the underground complex in the desert. Since then, Clint has organized a safe location to set up Loki’s base of operation, contacted various nefarious men to the Demi-gods’ cause and helped acquire the various materials needed for the operation. He’s tired and hungry; with all that’s needed to be done there haven't been many opportunities to rest. 

Clint looks around but doesn’t see Loki, and with nothing pressing to and no immediate new orders, he wanders off down one of dark hallways to one of the many empty rooms in the complex. Most of the halls have bare light bulbs screwed into sockets that are spaced at long intervals, leaving dark swathed sections, almost like lighting the place was an after thought. The room itself is dark, but the open arched doorway lets the barest bit of light in, a sickly golden glow that spreads as far as a few feet inside. He walks to the far corner and tucks himself away, hidden in the inky blackness to rest, he crosses his arms and draws his knees to his chest , hands tucked into the warmth of his elbows, huddling into himself. His stomach growls but he ignores it as he drops his forehead to his knees and closes his eyes, he's so very tired.

Clint doesn’t like most of the men he’s gathered, they’re an unsavory collection of hardened criminals, mercenaries, and extremists – but they’re necessary; Loki needs them, and that’s all that matters. The ones who recognize him, or his name glare, sneer and murmur things he doesn't always hear. But they recognize the Asgardian as somebody not to fuck with, and in deference to this, Clint’s safety is assured. They recognize that Hawkeye passes orders down directly from the Demi-God, and as such begrudgingly follow his instructions. These mercenaries have come willingly to Loki’s call to arms, they work for the money, personal gain or a twisted sense of patriotism. And Clint can’t help but feel more important, vital to Loki because he's been gifted a touch of the tesseract’s power.

However, on the down side he’s had a mildly distracting headache, a buzzing that almost sounds like whispering, that gets louder when his thoughts stray. And there have been brief moments when he is floored with a sickening sense of wrongness, the chest squeezing bout of anxiety causing him to hesitate until the tesseract’s influence soothes him back to a calm, clear headed state of being again. And he’s grateful for it too, because the panic is awful, he needs this calm, confident sense of self that comes with knowing that his purpose in life is to serve Loki. Perhaps his days of self reflection are over, and that isn’t a bad thought at all.

Hours go by and Clint is stirred by something – what, he has no idea. He feels jittery and sits there listening for whats caused him to startle into alertness. But there’s just the ambient noise of all the people in the underground building, the cool darkness of the room and the warm huff of his breath on his arms. He uncurls his body and makes his way out of the room, the crawling under his skin compelling him to find his Master. It's odd how right that thought feels.

He wonders the complex until he finds Loki, sitting by himself in the room next to the Lab, lank, black hair framing the scowl on his face. Clint stops, partially concealed by the shadows, feeling like a deer caught in the headlights when Loki’s gaze suddenly darts to him. 

The Asgardian’s face turns into a sneer, when he spots SHIELD’s archer. Loki has felt over-rung since he materialized into this realm, his time with the Chitauri had been stressful, exhausting and ultimately humiliating. He’d worked hard to convince the ‘Other’ he was loyal, capable and worthy of finding the tesseract, of leading his army and controlling Midgard. 

Now, finally here and only days later; he has the tesseract, the scientist to harness its power, warriors to fight for him, and a brilliant plan already unfolding. It was a beautiful thing, before he was pulled into conference with the Chitauri. To be treated like some lesser-being, pawed at and intimidated by a pompous beast living in darkness, and having to suffer it meekly was infuriating. 

“Do you know what it’s like to be subjugated, Barton?” Loki seethes with anger, it pains him to play this charade with the Chitauri, but he's smart, and in time he will rule not only earth, but the miserable Chitauri race as well. The Chitauri were crude, heavy-handed, and powerful, but he was devious, patient, creative and cruel. He was always destined to be King, to have minions worship at his feet, to be feared, to have whole civilizations, whole worlds know of his greatness and to have great armies loyal only to him. All that would come in time, but Loki needed something now as a balm to his pride. His eyes take in the proud stance of his proud, strong little Hawk, the one he stole from the mighty SHIELD. This little human might appease his volatile state of mind .

“Yes,” Barton stands straight and still, not daring to move.

Loki's eyebrows dip in annoyance. “You think yourself privileged? On your knees when you speak to me.” 

Clint drops to his knees gracefully and for good measure, draws his hands behind his back. He’s known men like this before and knows it's best to avoid further angering them. “No, sir.” He answers, voice strong but a touch quieter. 

Loki likes this, the sight of lesser beings kneeling before him, his hawk is perceptive. “You’re nothing. Your species is weak in strength and will. You think your SHIELD can stand against me?” 

“It’s a possibility; they won’t stop trying,” Clint inwardly cringes, fear creeping through him, but he's compelled to obey, self preservation be damned.

Loki clenches his teeth in irritation, takes a moment to collect himself, and with a smirk and soft voice says, “But you fell quite easily.”  
Footsteps echo towards them from down the hallway, it makes Loki stop and turn; and he smiles as he calls out for them to come. This would be perfect, much better than having to punish his Little Hawk with his own hands. This is, after all, one of the privileges of being King, to have others do his bidding.

Three soldiers, men Clint essentially hired, walk through the wide-arched doorway into the large room. The one on the right is a tall, muscled blond, dressed in black fatigues, who looks down at Barton kneeling on the ground and smirks cruelly, his gaze lingering before finally settling on Loki. Loki smiles to himself, recognizing the look in the blonds’ eyes as predatory.

The soldier in the middle looks at Barton on the ground with recognition. He’s the smallest in build between the three of them, shaved head and dressed all in black. The soldier on the left, with the short cropped black hair, is slightly shorter than the blond, but almost as stocky; he looks at Barton then back at Loki. 

Loki looks to the blond, the one who’s been staring at the archer with the sick gleam in his eyes. “Do you recognize him? Did the hawk aggrieve you while he worked for SHIELD?” Loki pauses.

The blond looks to the Asgardian questioningly, unsure if this is some sort of game. Hawkeye has been Loki’s right hand man so far. “Yeah, we met years ago, didn’t end well for my boss.” He shrugs, indifferent to the passing of a former employer.

Loki’s lips press together, displeased with the lack of title or formality this human has shown him. ”You will all address me with reverence and complete obedience.” He waits, but the three of them just stand there, looking stupid. “I am your superior in every way, you’ll address me as such.”

The smaller soldier with the shaved head answers first, cautious and eager to appease Loki, who he knows little of, but knows enough to know that the tall arrogant leader in front of him is dangerous. “Yes, Sir!” 

The soldier with the short black hair, has been watching carefully, and adds, “Yes, my King.” Not to be outdone by his long time partner. They both haven't gotten this far in the business of death by being stupid. 

Loki's lips lift into a pleased smirk. “That’s better.”

The Blond follows suite, and mutters the same phrase, inelegant and insincere, but quick enough to conform. He's here for riches and pleasure, not because he's an independent thinker or all together smart enough to do much else with his life.

Loki, relaxes and wills a throne like chair to appear behind him and sits down “Barton has displeased me with his arrogance and impertinence, he will learn humility. You will cultivate Barton’s compliance for me through creativity and punishment.”

“So.... I can do anything I want?” The blond asks, his eyes lingering on the kneeling form of Barton on the floor, before darting up questioningly to Loki.

“Such expansive, droll wording.... yes, but don’t be dreary about it. Please me with his suffering, ” Loki is irritated, the blond seems especially dumb, he wonders if these three humans don’t fulfill his expectations, if killing them will make him feel better.

Clint hasn't moved, eyes either on Loki or the tall blond to his left. He hasn’t moved because Loki hasn’t released him yet, but he wants to. He’s got tendrils of fear stirring that fluttery feeling of anxiety up a notch. He doesn’t know why Loki is angry with him, and he wants to please his Master, so when the blond moves closer and grabs him by the jaw to tilt his head up, he doesn’t jerk away. He heard the inherent order to comply. He looks up at the blond and knows what the expression means, the slight curl of the mans mouth and gleam to his eyes, as they look him over. He wants to pull away, but his body doesn’t move. 

The blond's hand slides up to curl into Clint’s short hair and tightens cruelly. Clint can't help but notice the straining bulge in the blonds pants, to close to his face. When the Blond speaks, he looks over to his teammate with the black hair. “What do you say Matt, you in?” 

Matt’s not as cleanly muscled, but he’s stocky and just a little bit shorter, “Blair, when have I ever turned down a good thing?” Matt hesitates only a moment to glance over at Loki, but shrugs his shoulders with indifference; what does it matter having an audience? He walks around until he’s standing on the other side of Barton.

Matt unzips his pants and pulls his still soft cock out, palming it gently in his big hand and it doesn’t take long for the it to fill and harden. Sliding the fat head side to side on the archer's lips, he says, “Suck it.” 

Clint’s eyes flicker to where Loki is sitting, his head still firmly held in place by Blair's hand in his hair. He feels caged, literally stuck in place with nowhere to go, even though the space is big, and the only thing on him is a single hand in his hair. He stares as best he can at Loki with his head turned away, hoping that his Master will end this. But Loki just smirks and nods his head and says, “Do as you're told, little hawk.”

Clint opens his mouth, tongue moving to cover the bottom of his teeth, as Matt thrusts forward shallowly. The taste is musky, and he has to stretch his jaw open wide, to accommodate the girth of Matt’s cock. It’s awkward to take further than the depth of his mouth and hurts every time it bangs into the back of his throat. Matt slides his hand onto the archers head, nudging Blair's hand off so he can guide Clint back and forth on his dick, the wet heat and friction making Matt grunt approvingly.

Blair reaches out to take hold of the Archers neck, and Matt lets Clint go, his cock pops out of Clint’s mouth with an obscene slurp. Blair’s already got his cock out and pulls Clint onto it, stopping when it hits the back of his throat; holding it there, trying to push forward. It’s the wrong angle to get any further down, but it doesn’t stop the bigger man from pushing.

Clint can’t breathe with Blair’s cock stuck so far in his mouth and wills himself to calm down and hold his breath. He has to do this, this is what he's been ordered to accept. It doesn’t stop the feelings of panic, but the tesseract’s influence mutes the fight or flight instinct. Blair pulls his cock out, letting Clint draw a breath only to have to hold it again, as Blair again pushes back to the same spot. 

“Fuck, I love it when you choke him with your cock,” Matt watches as he idly strokes his own dick. He pauses to look over at his partner standing just off to his left, the front of his black pants tented, “Joining in, Dan?”

Dan doesn't look away from the sordid sight of Clint on his knee's bracketed by both men, gagging on cock. “Soon.” It's a weird situation, but it's hot and mean, and it's exactly where he wants the archer. Not even in his wildest fantasies, did this ever occur to him. 

Matt turns back to watch Blair fuck the archer's mouth, who’s obediently kneeling with his tightly clasped hands still behind him. Matt turns to Loki, “Is he just going to let us do whatever we want to him the whole time? Not much fun if he doesn’t struggle at least a bit.”

Blair pulls Clint off his cock; he’s horny as fuck now and wants more, half listening to Matt. “Undo your pants Barton.” 

Clint does as he’s told, fingers remarkably steady with how tense he is. The pungent taste of Blair's cock lingering on his tongue, his chin wet from his own saliva, it's gross and he can't do a thing about it.

Loki looks to Barton, who is unzipping his pants. It’s true, he thinks, what is the point of this, if the archer doesn’t mewl of his own accord? It’ll be this easy submission the entire time. He grasps the scepter, concentrates, and firmly taps the bottom to the stone ground. 

Clint is momentarily confused; he shakes his head, staring down at the dirty stone floor. His pants are unzipped – odd, he thinks. But then there’s a hand in his hair. He tries to jerk away, and that’s when memory swiftly clicks into place and he makes an abrupt move to get away, muscles tightening. He doesn't get further than a few inches when Matt releases the short strands of his hair and clenches his big fingers around the back of his neck, pushing his face to the ground, while Blair grabs his right wrist and wrenches it up towards his shoulder blades. Clint throws his left hand to the floor in front of him, trying to stop his rapid descent to the ground. It only helps slow his momentum with both men forcing him down; his chest hits the floor, and Blair grabs his left wrist and folds it up to meet his right, high up on his back. 

Cheek pressed into the dirt, Clint has a view of Loki sitting on the chair watching and Blair’s right knee. Matt straddles Clint’s ass, releasing the back of the archer’s neck to dig around in his left pocket for the zap straps he has stashed there. Blair moves so that he's kneeling in front and slightly over Clint, the archer's head now between his spread legs, still holding both wrists, keeping him down. Matt manoeuvres the Zap Strap around both wrists, yanking it closed tightly. His hands slide down Clint’s squirming body till they get to his hips, curling his fingers into the waist of Clint's pants and roughly jerking them down. It’s not that easy, but they slowly shimmy down his hips and ass. Clint tries to spread his legs to prevent them going down further, but Matt shimmies a little further down and squeezes the archer's thighs closed with his knees. Dragging the pants down until mid thigh, he slaps Clint's ass hard for good measure, then moves back up until he can rub the shaft of his cock in the crack of Barton’s ass. Matt leans down, and spits a gob of spit, it lands just to the left of Clint's clenched asshole; Matt swipes it over with his cock, enjoying the new slick slide.

Clint struggles and twists as best he can, but there’s nowhere to go. The weight of Matt sitting at the top of his thighs, holding him down, and the zap strap already biting into the skin around his wrists. Panic floods his body with adrenaline; he knows what’s going to happen, and it’s not going to be pleasant. The heat of Matt’s cock rubbing along his ass crack causes him to clench his ass cheeks together. Blair’s hands are on his back pulling his shirt and jacket as far up his waist as it will go with his arms pinned the way they are.

Hawkeyes slight gravelly voice breathes out “I’m going to kill you both, you know,”. There’s not much point in him really talking, but it makes him feel better, in a dismal sort of way. He’s not going to beg or demand that they stop; he knows they won’t, and he won’t help them degrade him. 

“Uh huh. I’m pretty sure after this, when you're back to being an obedient pet, you’ll happily sit on my cock if Loki tells you too.” Matt says, not concerned at all.

Matt watches the muscles in the bound man below him bunch and tense. Firm ass, narrow waist and muscled back – Hawkeye’s lean body is fuck-able in every way. He spits into his hand a few times, rubs it on his cock and Barton’s ass, spits again, and gets it as wet as possible. He grips his cock with one hand – the other is anchored to the archers hip – lines the head of his cock up to the clenched, wet hole, and pushes forward. He’s met with resistance, pushes harder, and doesn’t get any further. He draws back, releasing his cock, and jabs his thumb into Clint’s ass, who grunts and gasps in pained surprise. Matt slides his thumb around, in and out and side to side, then pulls it out and lines his cock up again. 

Clint feels the head of Matt’s cock at his hole, and then the unrelenting push forward. He clenches his jaw and shuts his eyes, holding his breath when the unbearable burn starts, as he’s stretched open. His body flushes hot, the adrenaline surging from the spike of pain, sweat breaking out all over, as the burn seems to spread from his ass inwards in sharp uncontrollable waves up his nerves. The tip of Matt’s cock slowly slips in past the ring of muscle, pauses while Matt grips both sides of Clint’s hips with his hands, then with a powerful thrust, slides in all the way to the hilt. Clint can’t contain the burst of sound that’s forced out of his throat with the breath escaping his lungs. It’s a painful shock, and he desperately wants to get away from the pain, but he’s flat on his stomach, hips pinned to the dusty floor. The thrusts are long and steady, Matt pulling out until just the head of his cock is in the tight heat of the archer's body, and then thrusts back inside until he’s flush against his ass again. Clint’s back is a slick sheen of sweat, and he’s embarrassingly unable to stay quiet, but every thrust in is a shock, forcing the yelps and guttural groans out. He’s pulling and twisting his hands, knowing it’s futile but unable to stop, needing to do something.

Blair kneels at Barton’s head, idly stroking his own cock, as he watches Matt fuck Barton’s ass. The painful sounds the Archer is making, and the slick slap every time Matt bottoms out, are grossly pornographic. He glances over to Loki, but the Asgardian’s eyes are only on the pinned man on the floor. He turns his head and looks up at Dan, who is still clothed, but rubbing a palm up and down the front of his pants, eyes glued to Barton. Blair’s horny, and as much as he’s enjoying watching, he wants to fuck. He squeezes the base of his cock hard, calming himself, settling in to wait.

Clint keeps trying to angle his hips away, trying to find some way to lessen the pain, but the hands on his hips hinder any real movement. His hip bones begin to throb from being pushed into and then back and forth on the stone, his limp cock chafing along the dirty floor. The thrusting starts to speed up and he can only hope it means the guy is going to come soon. A hand moves from his left hip to the small of his back, near his bound hands, pressing down on him as Matt shifts his weight forward a bit. His thrusts get harder, faster and more erratic, and all Clint can do is clench his teeth and silently beg for Matt to come already. 

With a few brutal but short thrusts in, Matt comes, hips stuttering to a stop deep inside. “Fuck,“ he looks up at Blair across from him, smiles callously, waits a few moments and pulls out, “You want him the same way, or on his knees?”

“Fuck Yeah, pull his hips up.” Blair’s so hard, it doesn’t even matter to him really, but the ground is hard and it might be easier on his knees.

Matt tucks his fingers under Barton’s hip bones and hefts upwards. Clint’s face and shoulders take his weight, and he scrambles to bring his knees up and under to balance himself. The pants around his thighs restrict his movements, making it awkward, and hinder him when he tries to kick out at the guy behind him. It’s unsuccessful and pure panic; but he’s desperate to get away. 

“Now, now, none of that.” Blair says chidingly. 

Blair stands up and takes Matt’s place behind Clint, pushing his own pants down just enough to get his balls out from behind the zipper. 

Clint shifts his knees further forward, placing more of his weight onto them. There’s no one in front of him now, Matt is off to the side, cleaning his dick off; it’s a possible escape route. He tightens his back and stomach muscles and lifts his torso off the ground, while trying to get one foot forward on the ground. But his pants only give a few inches, effectively hobbling him in place, and then there’s suddenly a hand between his shoulder blades shoving him once again to the ground. He twists his face to the side, letting his right shoulder take the weight of his impact with the floor. He mindlessly pulls at his wrists; he can feel when the plastic rubs against the bony bits, and it’s starting to become a serious ache that throbs up his forearms.

“Don’t be such a girl. You’re not going anywhere.” Blair mutters.

Blair tries to spread Barton’s legs further; the archer’s hips are too high like this. He reaches down and pushes the bunched up fabric of Clint's pants down. Realizing Barton’s knees are spread too far apart, he looks over at his still fully clothed, shorter partner to his right, 

“Wanna help me out here Dan?”

Dan takes the two steps needed to bring him right beside Clint’s hips, and with a booted foot scuffing the ground, kicks the archer's right knee in towards the left; the limb slides about an inch, and Dan kicks it again. Clint’s legs are close enough that Blair is able to push the material to the floor. Dan bends down, grabs Barton behind the knee and jerks it forward and up towards the archer’s chest and out of the waist of his pants. Blair grabs the material and pulls them the rest of the way off the one leg. Dan releases his hold and takes a step back again to watch. Blair settles between Barton’s legs and pushes them outwards again until they're spread enough to lower him to the height where he’s level with Blair’s hard cock. Barton’s ass is wet and an irritated pink. Blair grips his cock and pushes right in; he’s so hard he’s worried he’s not going to last long.

It’s like sandpaper being pushed into Clint's ass at first. The burn is intense but settles after a few thrusts into a truly cringe worthy ache. Blair’s hands hold him tightly, fingers pressing into the flesh of his upper thighs near the crease of his hips. With each thrust forward, the man pulls back with his hands; his thrusts are hard and fast. Clint tries to shift his knees forward, to take a bit more of the weight off of his shoulder and head, but he’s unable to find any purchase or pause to move. Blair keeps pushing him forward when he fucks into him and to counter that, he’s clenching his thigh muscles tight, trying to stay in the awkward position and not slide forward on his face. There’s no rhythm or finesse to Blair; it’s just too fast and too hard, and Clint is grunting, dirt sticking to the sweat on his body. He can feel it rubbing into his cheek, can taste it in his mouth. He’s starting to feel nauseated. He feels too hot, too cramped and smothered. It’s hard to breathe, and he’s consumed with the need to move away. And he’s so goddamned pissed – angry at Loki, the scum-bags fucking him, and at himself. If he’d been faster and smarter at SHIELD’s base in the dessert, this wouldn’t be happening.

Blair comes with a vicious thrust and grunt, reaching down to grab Clint by the hair and pulling him back up towards him, his other hand firm on the archer’s hip, holding him tightly, and grinding his cock deep into his ass. He pulls Barton’s head to the side, biting down hard where neck meets shoulder. 

Clint cringes at the sharp pinching in his neck, moves his hands towards Blair’s belly – they’re almost flush, chest to back – trying to grab onto anything he can, hair or skin. But Blair pulls out of his ass and pushes Clint away like so much soiled garbage; he only has time to twist, so he lands on his side instead of his face. 

He’s facing away from Loki and towards the third soldier who’s still standing a few steps away, fully clothed. There’s a tendril of hope in Clint that this guy isn’t into raping others, or into men for that matter. But it’s impossible not to notice the bulge in the shaved head's pants, or the distinctly mean look on his face. His eyes are small, lips pressed into a thin line that makes it look like he’s frowning but amused as the same time. 

Clint is dirty from being tossed around, still flushed, and there’s an agonizing, stinging heat in his wet ass. It’s hard to tell right now if the wetness is from all the spit and cum or, possibly, blood. His knees feel scraped and bruised, and his wrists are a sharp throbbing pain; he tries to focus on that – it feels safer to think about his tender wrists then the pain lower down. He tucks his left knee closer to his chest, the other out to the side, and rocks himself to the right, attempting to propelling himself back up to a kneeling position – something a little less vulnerable than lying sprawled on the ground with his pants still around his left calf. Nearly upright, Dan steps towards him, and Clint only has a moment to think that this can’t mean anything good. 

Dan kicks out a foot, catching the bound archer solidly in the stomach, throwing him onto his back and tied hands. Back arching upwards to give his hands space beneath him and gasping for air, Clint watches warily as the other approaches. The black military boot strikes out, hitting Clint in the side of the thigh and ribs repeatedly, which explode in pain. Clint kicks out, trying to catch the standing man in the legs, anything to halt the abuse. The attempts are unsuccessful, and he’s rewarded with another kick to the knee and shoulder. Then Dan drops himself down onto Clint’s chest, the added weight putting added strain on Clint's folded arms and trapped wrists, the pressure on his bruised ribs making him tense, and overall, the effort to breathe requiring concerted effort. 

“You shot my partner years ago in Dubai, I don't expect you to remember.” Dan shakes his head, a mocking grin twists his lips into an ugly smirk. "Work hazard, I get it. But from a nobody, piece of shit like you..." He trails off raising his fist. 

Clint has time to tilt his chin down to try and protect his jaw, so when Dan pulls his fist back to punch him, it lands on his check. Dan stands up and moves to stand to the side of Clint's shoulder and looks to the two others just standing off to the side, watching, “Wanna grab him and hold him up for me?”

Blair and Matt move forward, reach down and each grab the archer by a bicep and pull him up; they don’t let go. They both grab a wrist, twisting Clints arms up so then can hook an elbow into the crook of his arms, effecting a solid hold.

“Guess your friend was bad man,” Clint smirks, it’s forced. He feels anything but cocky, standing awkwardly between both men with his pants in a dirty pile at one booted foot. Shirt rucked up and his arms bended at his sides.

Dan swings and hits Clint in the face, snapping the archer's head back. He pauses a moment to watch blood begin to trickle out of Clint's nose before he continues, hitting him twice more in the face then paying special attention to the ribs. He stops when the skin starts to darken with bruising. 

Clint spits blood onto the floor, muscles tense while he carefully breaths in around the pain in his torso. “Funny though, I didn’t see you. Were you hiding?” He asks, it doesn't come out as strong as he meant it to, while concentrating on standing uo straight on his own and breathing without moving his ribcage as much as possible. 

Dan jerks his knee up into the archer’s balls, and there’s a choked wail that escapes from his lips as he tries to curl into himself. Clint's chin drops to his chest, and he wheezes for breath, while trying not to throw up. His weight supported fully now by the guys holding his arms. 

“That’s it? That’s your line?” Dan asks, he grabs Clint by the hair, fists it tightly and jerks his head up, so that they’re looking eye to eye. “I’m not the one bound and bleeding with his pants on the ground.” 

Clint doesn't respond, he's barely managing to breath, convulsively swallowing so he doesn't embarrass himself further by puking. 

And with that, Dan walks around Blair to stand behind Barton, “Stand up, you pathetic little shit.” 

The guys holding Clint haul him up higher until he regains his feet, at which point Clint attempts to jerk away, it's weak but he has to at least try. Dan kicks the archer’s feet wider apart, unzips his pants, and pulls out his cock. One hand cruelly grips Clint’s hip, digging his fingers in more than necessary, pulls Clint's hips back so that Barton’s ass is out towards him more, and pushes his cock in. It’s not the best position, but when he grabs the other hip, it’s easier to thrust in and out. And he does so with the intent to cum, fucking SHIELD's assassin fast and hard. 

Clint can only hang his head and try to hold in the grunts of pain that infuriatingly still escape his clenched jaw. The two soldiers holding him tightly between them leave very little room for movement. He can smell the musty odor clinging to their clothes, the result of their underground dwelling, and faint wisps of sweat and sex. His view below is of their scuffed, black combat boots, and the old cement floor. His body is rocked back and forth by the hips jolting into him, his flaccid, grime covered cock bouncing with the motion. His ass is a piercing, raw ache, and he really doesn’t know how much more he can take.

It doesn’t take long for Dan to cum, and as he does, he leans in to talk into Barton’s ear, “I’m also not the one with all the cum in his ass. Now every time I look at you, I’m going to smile, because you’re nothing but a cunt I’ve fucked.” He pulls out, wraps a hand around his cock, wipes the mess off, and swipes in down the back of Barton’s rucked up shirt and jacket.

Loki stands and looks at them with a vague smile, “Release his wrists and go.” 

They do so obediently, Blair digs out a wicked looking, folding knife and cuts the zap strap binding the Archers wrists, and then they both release him, Clint ungracefully drops to his knees. He throws one hand out in front and slightly to the side on the floor to steady himself, the other groping for his pants. The Three soldiers fasten their pants, take one last look at Loki and then Clint, and leave the room. Clint's shaking, angry and hurting, head bowed trying to collect himself. His fingers catch on the waist band of his pants behind him, and he drags them up, slots his booted foot into the empty leg, and tries to shimmy it through. It’s awkward, but there’s no way he’s going to sit on his aching rear to pull them up. His foot pokes through the hem, and he tugs the rest up to his knees, rocks his weight over to one side, and slides most of the material over and up one knee. He is about to repeat the motion on the other side when he hears Loki step closer. A surge of panic swells inside of him, and he pushes himself backwards onto his feet and rises up, one hand still pulling his pants higher. Loki walks closer, and Clint feels trapped and vulnerable; it’s involuntary when he steps back with each forward step of Loki’s. He frantically pulls his pants up and over his hips, fingers fumbling with the button, when his back collides with a wall. Nowhere to go now, he takes his fear and turns it into something else, wraps his anger around him into something he hopes will protect him. He still has his pride, and with that thought, he tries to school his face into something that doesn’t resemble fear. There's something to be said about false bravado.  
Loki stops a foot or so away from Barton and smiles when he looks at the archer, standing against the wall, face bloody and bruised. There’s a nasty gash just above his left eyebrow that’s still seeping blood. Body slightly hunched over, pants buttoned but still unzipped, shirt and jacket still bunched and twisted, he’s breathing hard, eyes flickering about the room when they slide away briefly from staring at him. 

“You are mine, little bird, to do with as I please. Your arrogance annoys me. You think because you’re at my side it gives you importance? You dare treat me as one of your common commanders, something so insignificant? I’m a King, a God to you, and you will address me with the due respect my title demands!” 

He grabs Barton’s neck tightly, and it stirs the smaller man into movement. Loki merely smiles and squeezes tighter, as his trapped little bird pulls at his hand and squirms, trying to loosen immovable fingers. “Your strength is laughable; have you not learned?” 

The thrashing is slowing, and Loki loosens his hold enough for the man to breathe. He pauses a moment, waiting for the smaller man to look him in the eye, “Look at you, you’re a mess.”

Clint’s voice is gravelly; he has to pull hard to get air past the constriction around his throat. “Well, that’s what happens when you let other people play with you stuff,” 

Loki still needs Barton, but the urge to break him is maddening, “On your knees. Submit to me, and I’ll be lenient with you.”

Clint may not have a formal education, but he isn’t a stupid man. He knows there’s no way to win right now; he’s at a distinct disadvantage and besides that, hes only human. There's no way he has a chance against Loki. With a slump to his shoulders he says, “ You have me pinned to the wall.” 

Loki releases his hold on him, but doesn’t step back, “Now, little bird.”

Clint feels rooted in place, knowing he should kneel, but momentarily stunned, staring at Loki and feeling the pain still throbbing all over his body. He wonders if defiantly standing will chase away his humiliation in a childish display of pride. But the room is empty, and Loki is uncomfortably close and dominant in front of him. With a sigh of defeat, he tilts his chin down and slides down as gracefully as he can to his aching knees, “I’m beginning to think you have a thing for dudes.” He’s trying to distract himself. Even leaning away as far as possible until his back hits the wall, his face is unnervingly close to Loki’s clothed cock.

Loki stares down at his little hawk on his knees. He likes the rumpled sight of submission. He breathes in, feeling notably better, this indeed was a perfect distraction for him. He reaches down to grab Barton by the hair and pulls him back up, “Not today, little hawk; you're filthy and disgraceful.”

Clint swallows; he doesn’t know why it hurts to hear that, and it’s true after all, objectively speaking. The sweat has cooled, along with other unmentionable things, and his clothes are either sticking to the wet spots or rubbing irritably along the dirt covered bits of his body. He sees Loki moving the scepter towards his chest, and is, sickeningly, almost looking forward to it, to no longer having to deal with this, the thought shaming him. He closes his eyes as he feels the tip press into his chest. His world shifts to blue.


End file.
